


Lord of the Tansy Cakes

by thesexbots



Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: Banter, Fonging, Food, Food Kink, Humor, M/M, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesexbots/pseuds/thesexbots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they prepare for Will's wedding, the gang resorts to a contest of strengths to decide, once and for all, who will receive the honor of being Will's best man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Contest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [polishmyarmor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/polishmyarmor/gifts).



> A tale in two parts; the first full of hilarity, the second full of smut.

"All right, gentlemen." They were cleaning the keep's kitchen after breakfast when Chaucer finally broached the topic that had been on everyone's minds. "We have less than a month until the wedding of our dear lord and friend, and he is going to need a best man. Now, I've thought this over very thoroughly and come to the conclusion that the logical course of action is for it to be - "

"Me." Wat declared, as if there was no other choice.

"Why the hell do you think it should be you? I've known him the longest!" Roland declared, puffing out his chest. 

Chaucer raised one pale eyebrow. "Well, I daresay he wouldn't have gotten very far had it not been for a certain silver-tongued herald. I practically made him what he is today."

Wat shot him a glare. "You. You made him what he is today? Where the bloody hell were you when we were pulling his ass along in a cart teaching him to joust 'cause we only had one horse?"

"While I'm certain you made a very good mule, Master Fowelhurst, but - "

"I WILL FONG YOU!"

“Hmm, yes, quite. You keep threatening that,” Chaucer mused.

“None of this changes the fact,” Roland interjected, “that I’ve known Will since he looked like a little curly-haired blond girl, and let us not forget, basically, he likes me most.” 

"Says you," Wat shot back, frowning. “Just the other day, he let me eat his treacle tart.”

“That’s because he’s watching his girlish figure for the wedding, ain’t he?”

“Pain...” Wat mumbled, flaring his nostrils.

"Gentlemen," Chaucer started with a sigh, "While I am certain that Master Will greatly values your long history together and your friendship, the fact remains that being the groom's best man requires a certain level of comportment that both of you are dearly lacking in. Bluntly put: it is simply out of the scope of your abilities.”

“Fonging! With... teeth.”

"All right," Roland started with a sigh. "We're clearly not going to come to any kind of agreement, so we'll have settle this the old fashioned way."

Kate had remained silent up until this point, munching an apple at the kitchen table. "You idiots could just ask him what he wants, you know."

“Why on earth would we do that, woman?!” Wat exclaimed with genuine bewilderment.

"This isn't about him," Roland agreed.

“Indeed, this has nothing to do with him,” Chaucer confirmed. “This is about my needs to be recognized for the contributions I’ve made to his life, and society in general.”

“Hear, hear,” Wat nodded, then added, “Wait? What?”

"We need to settle this like men," Roland started again.

"Right," Wat agreed, and started rolling up his sleeves.

"We are _not_ brawling over this!" from Chaucer's expression they might as well have suggested kicking small animals for fun and profit.

Wat snorted. "You have a better way then, do you?"

Chaucer paced the room for a few moments in thought, at last, raising one slender finger aloft, he pronounced, “Loathe though I am to knock heads with you, I propose we settle this by a fair contest. Now, there are three of us, each one with different strengths, and therefore it is only fair that each propose a contest of our choosing, benefiting their own strength. We shall then draw straws to see which one of us will be more favored by fortune in naming his own terms.” He stopped and glanced about the room. “Am I being followed?”

“Followed by a fonging,” Wat mumbled.

“Come, gentlemen! Propose a contest of your choosing! I shall start, and fair Kate will be the judge. For myself, I choose poetry.” He smirked.

“Unfair!” Roland protested.

“I’ll give you such poetry, you won’t be able to sit down for a fortnight!” Wat added.

"I'm sure you would," Chaucer replied with a smirk. "Roland, name your poison."

Roland leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest while thinking. "Pies," he said finally. "Meat pies. Whoever bakes the pie that Will likes best is clearly the best choice to be his best man."

"You know bloody well Will loves your pies," Wat grumbled.

"Well, what's your choice, then?"

“Let me guess, wait!” Chaucer interrupted. “A fonging contest!”

“I’ll have your face fonged, I will!”

“There will be no fonging in the kitchen,” Kate interfered again. “Please, Wat, do be a dear and chose something more civilized.”

“Fine!” Wat searched his mind, rather angrily, casting disdainful looks towards his comrades. “Tansy cakes!”

“You cannot make tansy cakes!” Roland pointed out. “You might as well forfeit!”

“Nay, you fool! But you know as well as I do that I love nothing more in the world, present company most _definitely_ included, than I love my tansy cakes. I choose a tansy cake eating contest! Ha HA!”

After a long moment of silence, Roland straightened. "Well, there you have it, then. Time to draw straws. Kate, if you would do the honors?"

"You're all bloody daft," Kate replied, but stepped outside, returning a few minutes later with three pieces of straw in her fist. "Whoever draws the shortest one chooses the contest, and I'm only doing this once, you hear?" She held out her arm towards Chaucer first, “Go on, then!”

“Oh, bollocks!” the poet declared, pulling a straw which looked to be a losing contender.

“Now you,” Kate faced towards Wat, who made a big show of making a graceful bow towards her, prior to choosing his lot.

“Aha! I win! I always win, don’t I, dear Kate?”

“Indeed, you would be the man with the shortest straw,” Chaucer sneered. “If all victory relied on the shortness of your straw, you would be King of the World.”

"Why you - "

"No fonging in the kitchen!" Kate snapped again, throwing an arm out and nearly clotheslining Wat as he rushed at Chaucer.

"Tansy cakes it is, then," Roland declared, ignoring Wat's sputtering. "And lets get on with it, right? I don't have all afternoon."

While it did end up taking all afternoon to procure enough of a quantity of tansy cakes from the local tavern to satisfy even Wat's demands, they finally had all the tools for their match, each small cake topped with a neatly measured dollop of peppermint cream. They were divided evenly into three piles, carefully counted and verified twice by each contestant, at Wat's insistence.

Kate sat across the table from them. "Right then. Whoever finishes their lot first - wins, assuming they keep it down for at least five minutes afterwards.”

“Wait,” Chaucer held up his hand, and then quickly disposed of his tunic and shirt.

“What on earth?” Roland asked. Wat just gaped with a slackened jaw and hollow eyes.

“Whyyyyyyyyy youuuuu.... I say, no distractions! That’s bloody cheating!” Wat shouted.

“I’m merely making more room. Contain yourself and your distractions!”

“Bloody hell, at least keep your pants on!” Roland begged. Wat snarled next to him.

"I can concede to the need to protect myself from your savagery," Chaucer agreed, sitting back down at the table.

"Right then," Kate said with a sigh, holding up her hand. "As soon as I hit the table, you may begin. One, two...."

With a bang, the three began shoveling the small cakes into their mouths. Wat was certain he had this down to an art, stuffing three cakes in his mouth at once and chewing each cake exactly three times before swallowing. Still, he couldn't help but keep tabs on Chaucer out of the corner of his eye. He was certain the gangly weasel must have something up his sleeve, sleeveless though he was, possibly an extra mouth. Why else would he be half naked?

The cakes in front of him quickly began to diminish, and he was gratified to see that Chaucer still had far more left than him. But just as he was about to reach for his last two cakes, Kate's fist banged down on the table. "And we have a winner!"

"WHAT?" Wat tried to say, although with his mouth still full of tansy cakes it came out closer to "WHUFF?"

Roland leaned back on the bench with an all too smug grin on his face, swallowing his last cake and licking a crumb off his fingers. "That was delicious."

"Why you - " Roland had to keep from upchucking for at least five minutes, and Wat was sure could definitely do something about that.

"If you fong him then you forfeit the competition," Chaucer pointed out quickly, catching Wat's arm to keep him from lunging at Roland. "Mind you, I'd win in that case. Which would you prefer?"

After a long and arduous internal struggle, Wat came to the conclusion that the only thing worse than Roland winning would be if Chaucer won. "Fine," he muttered, sitting back down on the bench, and sadly mouthing the remaining tansy cakes with a woeful sigh. Roland punctuated his victory with a grandiose belch.

“The best man has clearly won,” he complacently petted his tumescent stomach. “Now, when I can move again, I’ll go tell Will of his good fortune.”

In the end they all insisted on going to tell Will, and Chaucer took over most of it, spinning the whole situation into an intricate tale of valour that ended in Roland's victory. Throughout all of it, the furrow between Will's eyebrows grew deeper and his expression more consternated.

"Well," he said finally, "I suppose if you've decided amongst yourselves in a manner that you've concluded is fair, then... I will honor the outcome of your competition."

"Bloody right you will," Roland replied, belching again. "I won't be able to eat another tansy cake for at least a year thanks to this."

Wat wiped away a furtive tear at this. It was unclear whether he lamented being bested by Roland, or just the general thought of someone not eating tansy cakes for year.

As the three men and Kate turned to leave the room, Will suddenly called them back.

“Just a minute there, good sirs! Roland, now that you’re my best man, where do you think you’re going? You must stay here with me, help me figure out my costume for the wedding, help me trim my horse, find my Lady a wedding gift, and last but not least, plan my bachelor party, obviously!”

Wat found himself suddenly, strangely glad that he hadn't won after all, though Roland seemed all too happy with the list of tasks. “Trim his horse!” he snorted and eyed Chaucer. “And you took your shirt off for that!”

"I took off my shirt," Chaucer agreed, with a strange little smile playing about his lips.

“Can I eat your last tansy cakes then?”

Chaucer regarded him for a moment, still smiling that strange little smile. "I will let you, on one condition."

Wat's eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm not writing any bloody poetry."

"I should certainly hope not," Chaucer replied with a soft laugh. Wat followed as Chaucer returned to the kitchen, grabbing a platter and moving the remaining tansy cakes onto it.

"Well? What's your bloody condition?"

"That I provide the cream, of course," Chaucer said simply, turning and heading towards the living quarters and leaving Wat no choice but to follow the disappearing platter of delicious delights.

~~~~

 

Now, dear reader, a choice is in front of you. Should this fic remain a simple piece of friendship and humor, its innocence intact? If this is your will, then read no further.

If, however, you wish to experience Wat and Chaucer consoling each other in all sorts of delightfully nasty explicit ways that may or may not involve humorus euphamisms, then, by all means: READ ON!


	2. The Fonging

Wat wasn't completely surprised when their destination proved to be Chaucer's room, nor when Chaucer's first course of action upon arrival was to once more remove his tunic and shirt.

"Again with the naked?"

"Don't act so hard done by," Chaucer replied with a smirk. "Besides, it's practical. Saves on laundry. Off with yours."

Watching Chaucer's nimble fingers as he began to unlace his breeches, Wat had to concede that he had a point.

“You wily beast,” he growled through his teeth, “You did remove your shirt during the contest to rattle me, didn’t you?”

Chaucer smirked and approached Wat with a soft and steady step, running his hand up the back of Wat’s neck and grasping the back of his hair. "With Roland and Will occupied with the wedding... we'll have some uninterrupted quality time to ourselves now, won't we?"

“Why, I should fong you,” Wat whispered, lovingly, his eyes becoming clouded with pleasure.

He watched Chaucer's smile widen. "Well, Master Fowelhurst, that was precisely what I had in mind." He leaned closer, lips parting slightly as Wat claimed them with just as much savagery with which he'd approached the contest, sucking and nipping at Chaucer's lips, tongue pressing into his mouth.

"Get into bed," he growled, tugging at Chaucer's unlaced breeches until they landed around his ankles. "On your stomach."

"Someone's impatient today," Chaucer noted with a little smirk, though he didn't complain, stepping out of his breeches and stretching gracefully out on the bed.

"Never said that," Wat replied, picking up the platter of tansy cakes from where Chaucer had set them down. He regarded Chaucer's naked form for a moment - the slender waist and hips, the smooth expanse of his back and the shoulders that were just wide and taut enough to be masculine. 

Chaucer had pillowed his head on his arms, and turned sufficiently to look up at him with a beguiling smile. "Well? Are you just going to stare?"

"No," Wat replied, picking up one of the leftover tansy cakes and placing it delicately on one of Chaucer's firm ass cheeks. "I'm going to eat my bloody cakes. Don't move."

“Voracious fiend,” Chaucer mumbled, suppressing a grin.

"Exactly," Wat agreed, regarding the perfect balancing of one cake on each ass cheek with a discriminating eye, then setting the platter aside. "Whatever that means."

"It means you," Chaucer started, drawing a sharp hiss at the feel of Wat's teeth on his ass cheek. "Hey! That's not a cake!"

"Sorry, must have missed," Wat said, not sounding remotely apologetic. He placed a warm kiss to the place on Chaucer's ass where he'd bitten, before carefully taking a bite of the cake that was balanced on it. "Mmmmm."

"I can't believe that I'm laying here naked and you're still thinking about your stomach," Chaucer half complained, something which earned him another sharp nip to his ass as Wat ate the other half of the cake.

"You distracted me and made me lose, and you know how I hate losing," Wat replied calmly.

"Yes, well - " Chaucer started, then give a most unmanly squeak at the slick press of Wat's tongue between the cheeks of his ass. "What, pray tell, are you doing?"

"Eating my bloody cakes," Wat mumbled, running his tongue over the tight pucker of flesh again.

"With a mouth full of cake? You're going to get crumbs in uncomfortable places!"

"Do you want me to stop?" He pressed his tongue a little more firmly against Chaucer's hole, grinning complacently at the groan it pulled from his lover's lips.

“Not unless you want to get a fonging of your own!”

“Promises, promises.” Wat resumed his assault against his lover’s tight entryway, breaching it with his tongue as his hands firmly grasped and kneaded the pale globes of his perfect little arse. Then he paused, taking a bite out of the other cake that still balanced precariously on Chaucer’s second cheek.

"Oy!" came Chaucer's rather indignant complaint, but Wat just chuckled.

"Have to keep up my strength."

"With the amount you eat, you should be Hercules," Chaucer retorted, giving a moan as Wat resumed his work. "Oh god, yes...."

Wat took his time, both with his last tansy cake, savoring every bite, interspersing his oral fixation with an occasional nibble and lick on Chaucer’s behind. The latter was becoming more worked up than he had previously anticipated.

“Oy there - are you going to just keep at it all night or are you planning on actually, you know, living up to your constant threats?”

Wat lifted his face from between Chaucer’s spread ass-cheeks.

“Which threats?”

“To _fong_ me, you idiot!”

"Well... since you ask _so_ nicely...." Wat nipped again at one pale ass cheek before pulling away, finding a small bottle of oil that was hidden in the basket beside the bed. He drizzled some along the crack of Chaucer's ass, smiling at the little whimper that Chaucer gave as he trailed his fingers along the same path. "You wanton little whore."

“You unrepentant tease!”

“If I was such a tease, would I do _this_?” Wat asked and mounted his lover with one sure stroke. Chaucer moaned and arched his back to impale himself more firmly on his lover’s cock. “Oh yeah, this what you wanted?” Wat panted, pressing closer and breathing hotly into the poet’s neck. “For my extrails to become your entrails, eh?”

“Oh, just shut up and ride me!” Chaucer demanded, bucking back against him.

“Demanding harlot,” Wat choked out, as he increased his tempo and the ferocity of his thrusts, slamming into Chaucer so hard that the poorly-made cot was creaking and rattling beneath them. Here, at least, his victory would be assured, each thrust of his cock taking command of his lover's body, making Chaucer arch and writhe underneath him, crying out in unrestrained pleasure. He loved Chaucer most like this, all of his silver-tongued sauciness stripped away, debauched and rendered finally speechless by the sole power of his cock.

"This is what you get for distracting me," he gasped, bucking harder into him, burying himself to the hilt again and again. "Gonna fong you until you blow your load all over the bed - !"

"Stop promising and do it!" Chaucer gasped underneath him, hands clenched at the bedding. His pale form shuddered with pleasure, body tight and hot around Wat's throbbing cock. Wat leaned closer to mouth at the back of his neck, nipping at his skin and groaning at the shuddering cry it pulled from Chaucer's throat. The taste of Chaucer's skin was even more beloved and familiar than the tansy cakes, and though he'd never admit it, even more craved. He could feel his pleasure build, the tight heat of Chaucer's ass and his obvious desire almost too much to resist.

"God, Geoff," Wat gasped, nipping at his lover’s neck just below his ear, bucking harder into his ass. "Show me how you like it... Come for me, love - !"

The whimper that escaped Chaucer's lips sounded almost helpless, and he bucked up underneath Wat, desperate for more sensation. It took only a few more thrusts before Chaucer was coming undone beneath Wat, clenching around his cock, with exquisite tightness. Chaucer cried out as he came, gasping Wat’s name, and in that moment Wat couldn't think of anything more amazing.

It was easy to give his own lust free reign, burying himself in his lover's perfect heat again and again until his passion crested. He pressed his face to the back of Chaucer's neck, letting himself become completely overwhelmed by Chaucer as he came inside him in hot spurts, his own senses filled by his lover’s essence.

"Best peppermint cream ever," Wat muttered breathlessly as he slowly returned to himself, trying to catch his breath.

Beneath him, Chaucer chuckled softly. "I believe the true victor of today's sport is you, my love. As I'd hoped it would be all along."

“Next time you want to get plowed,” Wat purred into the poet’s neck, “Just give me a sign, so we don’t have to waste any tansy cakes on Roland.”

~~THE END~~


End file.
